


The Tale of the Archer

by nishiki



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Brothers, Bjorn being a good brother, Brother Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Rewrite, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Ivar, Hurt/Comfort, Ivar (Vikings) is a Little Shit, Little Brothers, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, POV Bjorn, POV Hvitserk, POV Sigurd, POV Ubbe, Pre-Canon, Protective Older Brothers, Vikings, bros being bros, good brother Bjorn, good brother Hvitserk, good brother Sigurd, good brother Ubbe, the brothers actually sticking together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28648566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishiki/pseuds/nishiki
Summary: A four-part story in which the four older sons of Ragnar Lothbrok explore their relationships with their youngest brother.
Relationships: Bjorn & Ivar (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ivar (Vikings), Ivar & Sigurd (Vikings), Ivar & Ubbe (Vikings)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 78





	1. The Bear and the Archer

The year was 815 as Bjorn Ironside returned victoriously from another raid. He had seen thirty-four winters and by now he was tired of raiding smaller, unsuspecting villages along the coast. It had become tedious work for him and his passion for those raids was simmering down like a dying flame with each year that passed. He found little satisfaction in it and little sense when he already knew that his fate lay not in Norway. Every time he would return from his journey across the sea, he would find himself sitting over that map he had found in Paris, planning ahead to the day when he would finally be able to leave Kattegat and discover new places. Soon, he knew, his fleet would be ready and then he would finally set sail. Maybe one or two more years - if he would not die before that during a raid or from sickness.

He was not an old man yet and still, his life seemed to run through his fingers like sand. He saw his children grow up and was humbled by that, reminded of his own mortality. The same he felt every time he would return and see his younger brothers had grown again. Every time he would return, they had become bigger and stronger. 

Ubbe was a man already and Hvitserk had only little puppy fat to shed now. The biggest shock, however, it was always when he would see his youngest brother Ivar. His brother Ivar had been born only months before his stepson Guthrum. He was like his own child, in that respect, even though Bjorn had never spent much time with Ivar in the past. Something about that boy had always been unsettling to him and his legs had nothing to do with that. He knew that his brother Ubbe shared this feeling, even though the love that Ubbe held for his little brother was strong and fierce regardless. Ubbe was wise enough to be wary of Ivar and so was Bjorn, while both Hvitserk and Sigurd had yet to learn this lesson.

He remembered the day Ivar had been born vividly even to this day. He had been out training with his uncle before their family had broken apart for good. His father had been agitated the entire day and gloomy after his youngest child had finally made it into the world. Rumors about his health had started to spread all throughout Kattegat immediately and everyone seemed to know a new gruesome detail about baby Ivar’s condition. Bjorn himself had not dared to see his baby brother for two days. He had taken to distract Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd instead. Back then everyone had been certain that Ivar would not survive his first few days on this earth and Bjorn hadn't wanted his little brothers to feel the pain of losing a sibling. He knew best, after all, what it felt like. To this day, he often thought about his big sister Gyda and that he had not been there with her when she died. So, he had thought, it would be better to distract them, not let them see Ivar in the first place. He had known his little brother Ubbe would latch onto the new baby immediately. He had always had a soft, giving heart, overfilled with excitement about the new baby - another person he could love.

It had been only during their journey to England when his father had confessed to him that he had abandoned Ivar in the woods the morning after his birth and that it was only thanks to Queen Aslaug that Ivar was still alive. Bjorn had never felt anything but contempt for that woman but at least she had been wise enough to follow her heartbroken husband into the woods in the wee hours of that gloomy morning to save her newborn baby. He remembered having been furious with his father and yet, now as a father himself, he thought he could understand him better. 

Had he not abandoned his own daughter Siggy, after all? He might not have left her in the woods as a newborn but he had abandoned her and left her in Queen Aslaug’s care. That had been as good as throwing her to the wolves. Unlike Ivar, however, Siggy had not had a mother who had come to save her in time. He should have known from the start that Aslaug couldn't care less about her step-granddaughter. 

This was a grief and a shame that Bjorn would forever carry in his heart.

The air was cold and the leaves on the trees were turning orange as Bjorn stepped off his ship at last and was greeted by Torvi and his three young children. Guthrum was a young man now, wearing his armring with pride. Bjorn had been there when both Ivar and Guthrum had gotten their arm rings two years ago. Both boys had been beaming with pride even though Bjorn remembered the snarky comments of some of the men concerning Ivar. For most people in Kattegat, Ivar had no right to that armring for he would never be a warrior. Sometimes he thought that it was cruel of Aslaug to pretend like Ivar had the same opportunities as his brothers when it was so clear that he would never be like them. 

It was true, and Bjorn felt it in his core when he kissed his wife, that the flame of their love had long been extinguished. It seemed to be his fate that he could never stay true to a woman for longer than a couple of years. Maybe marrying Torvi had been a mistake in the first place and neither one of them held any illusions about the fact that theirs was a union born out of convenience. He still held love for her as the mother of his children but their bed had grown cold a long time ago. It seemed he was a man adrift on the ocean, in a nutshell, swayed this way and that, never arriving somewhere, never finding what he was looking for. Torvi was a good woman. She was loyal and strong. He did not deserve her.

As he walked with Torvi away from the docks while his men were unloading the treasures and supplies that they had stolen from other hard-working men and women, he took a deep breath and tried to take in Kattegat anew. He would later need to go to Queen Aslaug to pay her a courtesy call but she could wait. She was the queen, yes, but he was still Bjorn Ironside and he knew that, if it would come to it, the people of Kattegat would rally behind him and not her. Since Ragnar had left and abandoned his family years ago, Aslaug and he had come to an unspoken agreement. 

Neither one of them would be outright hostile to the other. They would treat each other with respect and more often than not Bjorn would govern beside her - even though that duty had now been taken over by Ubbe for the most part.

Later that same day as he was walking the streets of Kattegat with no clear goal in mind other than to walk and embrace his beloved hometown, he came across a commotion. Earlier, after paying his courtesy call to Aslaug, he had wanted to find his little brothers to greet them but all four of them had been untraceable - which only meant two things in Bjorn’s experience: they were either with some girl or getting drunk. Even though Ivar seemed too young for both. Sometimes he envied them. Ah, to be so young and reckless again. All four of them still needed to sow their wild oats and at least Ubbe and Hvitserk were both very committed to that. 

The closer and closer Bjorn got to the commotion, the more and more realized that it was a group of young men laughing and jeering. As he rounded the corner of a house, he came across a narrow court between two houses and a mead hall. Just by the slurring of their voices, Bjorn could tell that they were all drunk as they were tormenting another man on the ground. Bjorn almost took a double-take as he recognized the figure on the ground. At first, he had been certain that it was just some poor slave and he had been ready to jump in to help the poor bastard but as he saw the face of the man, fury rose inside of him without his consent. 

His brother Ivar was helpless as he was on the ground and could not get away from the group of other young men. They were blocking his way in every direction, laughing when he tried to get through them, kicking him in the side when he got too close. And yet, despite the ridicule and the abuse, Ivar was not giving up. He had seen other men cowering in such a situation but Ivar did no such thing. He was like a wild animal as he lashed out at his tormentors despite the blood running from his mouth and nose and the mud clinging to his clothes. He seemed exhausted, though, the way he drew in a breath. His arms were trembling under the weight and strain he put on them. Another kick against the side of his head sent Ivar back into the mud where he stayed for another long moment.

“What is the meaning of this?” Bjorn thundered and sent the young men scrambling in fear as they caught sight of him. They were scurrying like rats, cursing under their breath as they saw who had come across the scene. Bjorn only caught one of the boys by the back of his shirt and slammed him into the wall of one of the buildings at the side. Before the young man could even beg for mercy, he had slammed his fist into his face at once and broken his jaw. Only then did he send him to the ground where the man remained lying on the ground, howling like an animal. 

In quick strides, Bjorn bridged the distance between himself and his brother on the ground who was now covered in mud thoroughly. He tried grabbing his arm but Ivar immediately swung at him and hit him in the face. His lips split under the impact of the punch his baby brother had thrown at him and the taste of blood in his mouth quickly only spurred on the fury he felt. However, as Ivar’s bright blue eyes met his, that same anger quickly dissipated as he saw the well of unshed tears both of anger and pain in his brother’s eyes. 

“Come on,” He muttered quietly and leaned down again to pull him up. He would have to carry him. There was no way he would be able to crawl all the way back home. “I’ll get you home…”

“No!” Ivar spat but his words were quickly ripped away by a sob. “I can't go home like this…” His heart softened at the sheer desperation coloring Ivar’s words.

“Why not?”

“Mother will be furious … She will demand names and then the whole of Kattegat will know about this and it only gets worse then! It always only gets worse!”

It was true that Bjorn had never felt responsible for his youngest brother. Not in the same way he felt responsible for the other three. To him, for some reason, it had always been Ubbe’s responsibility to deal with Ivar. It was cowardly and he knew that. Just like his father, it seemed, he had abandoned Ivar. Otherwise, why would anyone think they had a right to abuse Ivar like this? 

“We’ll find a solution,” He promised, much gentler than he had ever spoken to Ivar before. “Come, let's get out of here before the howling of that idiot attracts others.”

Ivar allowed him only reluctantly to pick him up. He did not throw him over his shoulder like he usually would, though. Instead, he quickly allowed him to climb his back so that Ivar would be able to hide his bloodied face in case they would come across their brothers or Aslaug. A fine drizzle was slowly seeping through his clothes as he started walking. All he wanted to do was to go home to sit in front of the fire and just be done with today.

Instead, he had to evade prying eyes as he maneuvered quickly through the narrow streets of Kattegat until he made it home. Torvi was still out with the children as he entered their house. She would not return before dusk and Guthrum was with his friends. As he entered the house, he quickly put his brother down onto a chair by the table and walked to make a fire in the hearth. After that, Bjorn called upon one of his slaves to prepare a bath.

“Guthrum’s clothes should fit you,” Bjorn mused quietly as he took in his brother’s state. With all the mud clinging to him like a second layer of skin, it was impossible to make out his injuries properly. “Let's get you cleaned up first and then I’ll take care of your injuries.”

Ivar was uncharacteristically quiet as he helped him get out of his clothes. At least he was not being fussy as he was undressed by his big brother. A fussy Ivar was the last thing he needed right now. He decided to let him be quiet for as long as he needed to be. The slave placed the wooden tub close to the fire as she filled it with water. Bjorn thanked her when the tub was filled before he helped Ivar to get into the water. Only when Bjorn grabbed a rag and dunked it in water did Ivar start to squirm as if woken up from a slumber.

“I’m not a baby, Bjorn!” He hissed and he would have looked and sounded menacing if he would not be sitting in a bathtub, in Bjorn’s house and caked with mud and blood, staring up at him like a petulant child. “I can wash on my own.”

“Sure,” Bjorn huffed and handed his brother the rag. Slowly, he walked back to the table where he filled his cup with mead and emptied it greedily. “What even happened earlier?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He raised his brows. “Here I am coming back from another raid to provide for my community and my family - _my little brothers_ \- only to find a son of Ragnar Lothbrok lying in the mud and being kicked like a misbehaving dog by a group of beatniks. And even after months on sea, risking my neck for my _family_ , that same son of Ragnar Lothbrok chooses to lie to me.”

Ivar didn't look at him, his lips a thin line, as he focussed on scrubbing his skin until it came away pink from the force he was using. 

“Did that happen before?” 

He was met once more with silence but Ivar’s scrubbing became even more furious. 

“Ivar...”

“Yes!” His brother finally growled and looked at him with bared teeth and unbridled anger glowing in his blue eyes. Ivar’s eyes never failed to remind him of their father even though Ivar looked more like his mother than any of his other brothers. Floki had once told him that he had Ragnar’s eyes and pitied him for it. Back then he didn't understand it. Now as a grown man he thought that he could grasp the meaning behind those words more clearly. Ivar too had their father’s eyes and Bjorn pitied him for it. His brother was doomed to a life of restlessness and a quest for greatness. “Yes, it did! Happy now? Ivar the Boneless is nothing more than the punching bag of a bunch of assholes!”

As he returned to his work of scrubbing himself clean, it was on Bjorn to choose silence. He refilled his cup and emptied it while he watched Ivar struggle reaching his back. After he had emptied his cup, he walked back over to his brother and kneeled on the ground behind him. It didn't take him much effort to wrangle the rag from Ivar’s greedy fingers before he started washing his back dutifully. Ivar remained quiet for a while as Bjorn washed his back and first he was not sure he heard him right as he finally started talking.

“They are always needling me…” Ivar confessed in a quiet mumble. “They always did but it got worse since I got my armring. No matter where I go, people look at me like I am some sort of monster. It's only my legs that won’t work … but they treat me like I am this … creature that is not worth anything. I can still be useful, though. I have strong arms. I can help. They won’t let me, though. Everyone is always pushing me around and mocking me - whenever I am alone, at least. So, I try to not be alone as much. But Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd get annoyed when I keep following them around. They say I am too old to be doing that. They say I should do my own thing now, whatever that means.”

“Don't they know how the other youngsters treat you?”

“No…” He muttered quietly and not for the first time today Bjorn realized just how young his little brother still was. “I haven't told them - and you won't either, Bjorn!”

“Of course, not.” Of course, he would.

“Promise me!” Ivar demanded with a glare. “Promise me or I’ll piss in your mead! I might be a cripple but that I can do!”

“Why don't you want them to know? They would have gotten rid of the problem already if you had told them.”

“I don't want them to!” His cheeks - now clean - were pink. “I don't want them to fight my battles. they won't be there forever to do so. I don't want them to see me as a defenseless cripple that needs protection! I can take care of myself! I don't want them to think I am a burden and that they need to help me! I want to go on raids too! I want to fight my own battles too! But how could I ever expect anyone to take me seriously if I would always cling to Ubbe or Hvitserk? No, I need to get through this on my own. I am a son of Ragnar Lothbrok and I have to act like it. And those assholes will pay for it soon enough.”

He was impressed by his brother’s conviction. Asking his big brothers for help would be the easy route to take but Ivar was actively choosing the hard path. Well, then again, his whole life had been hard. Bjorn had no doubts about that. He grabbed the pitcher with the freshwater from where it stood on the ground. 

“Lean your head back,” He commanded and Ivar reluctantly followed, closing his eyes as Bjorn washed his hair clean from all the dirt. There was a cut on his forehead and one on his right cheek that would leave a scar. His clothes would hide the rest of his bruises but he would leave here with a black eye for sure.

“I won’t tell them,” Bjorn said after a while when he finished up his task. As Ivar sat up straight again, Bjorn walked back to the table, filled his cup for the first time, and handed it to his brother. “I promise, little brother. But I will teach you how to fight against bullies like those.”

“I already know how to fight…”

“No,” Bjorn scoffed. “I will show you how to fight _dirty_.”

**-End of Chapter 1-**


	2. The Wolf and the Archer

The situation inside the royal dining room was tense. They were at a stalemate and both of them knew it. Both Hvitserk and Sigurd thought that any of their decisions would influence the outcome of this standoff but Ubbe and Ivar knew that it was not the case. This decision would be made between the oldest and the youngest of the four sons of Princess Aslaug from Gotaland. Bjorn had left them days ago to come up with their own plan. He had left them, abandoned them, to go back to the Mediterranean Sea now that the death of their father had been avenged, putting Ubbe in charge of the army and his younger brothers as if none of that was his concern. 

Now that their father was dead, it seemed, nothing connected them to Bjorn any longer. At least that was the attitude Bjorn regarded them with. Ubbe was not too proud to admit that he was hurt by that. He had spent all his life looking up to Bjorn, admiring him, and being loyal like a faithful dog. To be abandoned by him now seemed to put his whole life into a whole new perspective.

“The way I see it,” Ivar said at last from the other side of the long wooden table. “we should go north and conquer York. It is the only logical step forward. Here, we are surrounded by enemies. Certainly, you see that too, Ubbe, and yet I realize that my word and my opinion mean little to you. You would rather die here surrounded by our enemies than trusting my judgment in the matter.”

“What makes you say that?” Ubbe asked patiently as he remained leaning back against the high backrest of the chair that looked almost a little like a throne in and of itself. Ecbert had probably used that very same chair while having dinner with his family. “Have I ever treated you like your word means less to me than anyone else's? You are my little brother.”

“I never said it meant less to you than _anyone else's_ .” Ivar corrected swiftly, his voice rising a few octaves as it always did when he was arguing with someone while trying to appear calm and collected. He could never deceive Ubbe, though. Not after everything that they had shared as brothers in the past. Of all the people in the world, it was he who knew Ivar best. Ubbe was certain of that. Even in front of their mother, Ivar had often played a role but Ubbe had learned to read and understand his brother - not in the things he said but in the things he would not say. “I am saying that my word means less to you than _Hvitserk’s_ word and Hvitserk has already made his decision. He would never speak against you and you know that. As for Sigurd ... Well, Sigurd is a spineless worm.”

“Why do you think Hvitserk’s word means more to me than yours?”

“Because he is your favorite,” Ivar scoffed and downed his cup of wine in one gulp. Ivar had never been a heavy drinker but Ubbe knew that his words were not the result of alcohol. That, however, would make it far easier to understand where his brother got them from.

“My what?” He was almost inclined to chuckle at those childish words.

“Everyone knows it!” Ivar replied with a roll of his eyes that was so far unrivaled by anyone Ubbe had met and leaned back in his chair, his eyes challenging despite his bored expression. “Hvitserk is your favorite brother.”

“I do not have a favorite brother!”

“Sure you do! Everyone has a favorite sibling as every parent has a favorite child.” 

“Even if that were true, which it is not, what makes you think that it is Hvitserk though?” Sometimes talking to Ivar gave him whiplash. Just a second ago, they had talked strategy and now they were somehow on the topic of who his favorite brother was. He took another large sip from his own wine to make sense of the development of this conversation.

“You had him in your bed!” 

He spat his wine across the table as those words left his baby brother’s mouth but, sadly, Ivar sat too far away to be affected by that fountain coming his way. Choking and coughing, he needed a moment before he could actually talk again and then, very eloquently said, or rather squealed: “What?”

“During your wedding night!”

“How do you even know about that?” Ubbe replied, heat shooting into his face and ears while he was still trying to not choke on his own spit and the wine that had made its way into his windpipe. 

“Margrethe is a gossip. You should know that. You married her, after all.” Even though he knew that he had done nothing wrong, he still felt a little embarrassed that his little brother knew about that night as Ivar’s insinuation was quite clear. “I’m not judging or anything, I am just stating facts.”

“You sound very judgy, though,” Ubbe huffed in response. It was quite clear what his brother thought about that fateful night and Ubbe didn't like it one bit. “I mean, I do not know what you think happened that night. But it is certainly not like you think it is. Hvitserk and I never … _crossed swords._ ”

“Oh shush, I do not want the image in my head, Ubbe!” Ivar replied, looking like a man ready to put his hands over his ears like a child. There was, however, a grin tugging at his lips. Apparently, to Ivar, this was all a big joke - and perhaps blackmail material. “I’m just saying - the fact that you took Hvitserk to bed on your wedding night proves my point.”

“Don't say it like that,” Ubbe groaned. “Also, I did so only because I stole Margrethe from him. Hvitserk had as much as a right to her than I had.”

“Yeah, and so did Sigurd - and I,” Ivar stated calmly - even though the last part could be debated but Ubbe would never tell his little brother that Margrethe had gone to Sigurd and Sigurd then, in turn, had come to Hvitserk and him. Margrethe was a gossip. Ivar had just said it himself. Ubbe, however, saw no reason in informing his little brother about the fact that he knew that he had never really slept with Margrethe. “Yet, you only allowed Hvitserk to share your wife. Which, again, proves my point. Hvitserk is your favorite.”

Ubbe sighed that long-suffering sigh that only seemed to leave his throat whenever he was confronted with his youngest brother. He raised his hands in surrender, ready to give up this conversation and hand whatever Ivar wanted to him if it meant he would just stop talking. In a way, it was still like it used to be during their childhood. “Even if he was, which he is not, why would that be important?”

“It would be important because it would make you biased. Hvitserk said he would rather stay here and farm because that is what you want and since Hvitserk is already on your side - because he is always on your side - you are not even taking into consideration what I have to say.”

“And what if Sigurd would be on your side?”

“Sigurd is never on my side,” Ivar scoffed. “Sigurd will go with whatever you guys decide because he lacks agency of his own. Sigurd is perfectly content with doing whatever as long as it means I don't get what I want and he can play the Oud.”

“You have little respect for our brother,” Ubbe commented dryly. “Little love.”

“Who’s talking about love, Ubbe? Of course, I love Sigurd. Respect is not the same as love and I am not disrespectful when I am merely stating the truth and you know that. The fact that you are not giving me an answer only proves that I am right with my assessment of the situation.”

Ubbe watched how Ivar moved down onto the ground to then swiftly slither out of the room. He would certainly retreat to bed now even though they both knew that Ivar would not sleep tonight. Just like Ubbe who had to make a decision and still found himself both unable and unwilling to do so. 

In a way, he knew that Ivar was right. So far he had not even considered Ivar’s plan. It was easier for him to side with Hvitserk when Hvitserk was already on his side. The constant fighting and bickering with Ivar was exhausting. It was a constant push and pull between them. He knew that Ivar desired influence and power and he knew that he needed to stand between Ivar and this desire. He was too young, too brash, too short-tempered to wield this sword with wisdom. He would cut himself if Ubbe would allow him to be influential or powerful. He could not deny, however, that his brother was highly intelligent. He could not deny that his plan was good and wise. Here in Wessex, they would always remain at risk of being surrounded by their enemy. He knew that it would be wiser to go to York and yet, he feared what would happen when they would follow Ivar’s lead. 

He would need to keep a close eye on his little brother, make sure that he would not get swept away by the intoxicating rush of victory and his own delusions of grandeur. And Ivar would hate him for keeping him under his thumb. Ivar would rebel against him, fight against him, but Ubbe knew how important it was to stay firm. Ivar had the potential for greatness and yet, at the same time, he had the potential to destroy everything that their father had built.

If Ivar would get his way, their family might just break apart. Just days ago, Ivar had been close to killing Sigurd. The ax had already been in his hand. Ivar was unable to control his anger. It was like a raging, wild beast inside of him. And Ubbe needed to be the one person keeping that beast on a leash. He could put that burden on no one else.

He wondered what his father would do. He had not spent much time with Ragnar but it was enough to have at least a grasp of what the man might just have done. He remembered how he had once found his father awake while he had been recovering from his injuries after his first raid on Paris. _Unfortunately_ , Ragnar had said as Ubbe had asked if he was awake. _Unfortunately_. Back then he had not grasped the meaning of his answer but now it was clear to Ubbe that his father had wanted to abandon his family even back then. He would have been fine dying in Paris or on the journey home and leaving them like this. And all that because of Athelstan the monk. For the longest time, he had been furious at this Christian who had bewitched his father in such a manner that his father so clearly had lost his will to live after his passing. 

His father had always wanted to have farmland in England so that they could build something for their people. The last time he had gotten this wish granted it had ended in bloodshed and carnage. Maybe Ivar was right with his approach. Before they could build something in this land, they needed to be secure in it first. Ragnar would agree on that for sure. And Ivar … Ivar knew that too. Ivar knew that and he also knew that Ubbe would come to that same conclusion. He was just waiting for him to go to him and agree to his plan. It irked Ubbe to know that he had lost this fight with his brother already and that they both knew that his resistance was futile. 

Something else, however, irked him much more about this whole situation and the conversation that they had shared.

The night hung heavy over the house of the dead king of Wessex when Ubbe found Ivar sitting in some dark room with narrow windows. He would not have been able to find sleep so he had not even tried to go to bed. Instead, he had taken to walk the house and see what he might find. As he reached the basement and found Ivar, however, it was an enigma to him how his brother had managed to get up the spiral staircase leading to this room or why his little brother would visit this completely barren room in the first place. Ivar was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, his back to the door, staring at the opposite wall as the pale moonlight shone through a narrow window. He had obviously heard Ubbe approach because he spoke up just as he entered the room.

“This is where I last saw our father,” Ivar muttered into the void around them. “He has been held in this room, shackles around his ankles and his wrists. He looked … like a bum, dirty, and washed up. When I saw him like that, I realized for the first time that his glory days have truly been over a long time ago. I never got an answer from him why he left us. I never cared to ask. We will never get the answer for this, I fear. It broke my heart that he cared so little about all of us that he would abandon us. I needed him so much and he was just gone, dropped off the face of the earth, swallowed whole by the great Fenris wolf, eaten alive by Jormungandr.”

“Hvitserk is not my favorite brother,” Ubbe said with a quiet sigh as he walked towards him as a way to shut up his brother’s sad musings about their dead father. It wouldn't help Ivar to continue this train of thought. “I don't have a favorite brother.”

Ivar scoffed quietly but granted him a small, mischievous smile as Ubbe came close and stepped around the chair to fully look at him. 

“It's true,” He said with conviction. “I do not have a favorite brother. Hvitserk and I are just naturally close. We were the first, after all, and we have always been together, even in Paris. But I love you all equally.”

“I am not a child anymore, Ubbe,” Ivar smirked. “You don't need to coddle me like that.”

“No?” He allowed a chuckle to slip out. “Sometimes it's hard to tell with you.” As Ivar sent a sharp glare his way, Ubbe rolled his eyes. “It is not wrong that Hvitserk and I are very close, Ivar, and I won’t apologize for it. We have been to Paris together, narrowly escaped death twice together when we were children. However, our closeness is so much different than the closeness that we share or even the kind of closeness I share with Sigurd. I do not know why it matters anyway. But I admit that I feel responsible for you. I have always felt responsible for you. You are my youngest brother, after all, and I remember the day you have been born very vividly and how Bjorn had kept us away from you for a couple of days after while the entirety of Kattegat was talking about your birth and that you had some sort of disability. I think Bjorn does not realize that we, at least Hvitserk and I, have noticed that he was trying to distract us from the whole thing. The people, including our parents, thought you would die in a matter of days and Bjorn wanted to shield us from the grief, I guess. He has lost siblings before, after all. He knows that pain. I acted as if I wouldn't know what he was doing back then and I helped him distract Hvitserk and Sigurd, but I heard the way people were talking about you and I imagined all kinds of horrible deformities or illnesses. But then, when I finally got to see you and when Mother put you in my arms, I was confused what all the fuss had been about. To me, you were perfect the way you were.” 

He noticed, even in the darkness of the cell, how Ivar’s ears turned pink. He acted, however, as though he would not notice. Briefly, he remembered the day that he had helped Ivar to get to the hut in the woods where Margrethe had waited for him. He remembered how unsure Ivar had looked, how _young_ he had looked, how afraid he had looked - his ears burning red, his eyes big and barely able to hold his gaze. Ivar had always had a big mouth but he was innocent in a way only a child would be in some ways.

“The Gods don't make mistakes,” He continued then. “That was what I told Mother too. I remember how she clung to you after Father and Bjorn had left to go to England. I believe she was very lonely even then. She never quite forgave Ragnar for abandoning you in the woods and I do think that their marriage broke apart on the day of your birth.”

“That is what Sigurd says too.”

“I am not claiming that _you_ are the reason for it, though,” He scoffed. “You did not choose how you were born, after all. A child can never be blamed for the downfall of its parents' marriage, Ivar. I think that their marriage was over long before that. Sometimes I wonder … I wonder if she really was a witch and if she bewitched Father. Then again, I don't think that it matters now. They are both dead and we are here. Mother always claimed that she was fated to give Ragnar his sons. She succeeded in that. Margrethe told me about the day she died and how she wanted to be let go by Lagertha. She just wanted to leave and move far away from Kattegat to start over someplace new. She would have abandoned us too. I can honestly say that I do not know which is better.”

“Do you really think that she would have left us?”

“Yes,” The answer came much easier than he would have expected it to slip out of his mouth. It was the truth, though. A very sad truth perhaps but the truth regardless. “Yes, I do believe she would have left. After Harbard … Well … You were too young when he came to Kattegat the second time but Hvitserk and I, we saw how she behaved the first time and from what we heard after we returned from Paris … She was not doing well and I am sure that part of that had to do with the way Ragnar treated her. Still, I believe she never recovered from the way Harbard has left her. Perhaps she would have left us and tried to find him now that she has fulfilled her fate. I do not think that she has ever loved our father. She just … followed the path she thought she needed to follow.”

“Do you…” Ivar bit his bottom lip as if he was trying to keep down the words but then he allowed them to slip out regardless. “Do you think she ever regretted having me? Do you think she truly loved me or that she was just acting like she did because it was her duty as a mother?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … I mean … sometimes it feels like no one truly loves me. Sometimes it feels that the people around me, my family, only pretends to love me because it is your duty to do so. Sometimes it feels that the people only pretend to love me because I am a son of Ragnar Lothbrok and thus in their eyes, I am godly by nature.”

He felt taken aback by his brother’s words. So clearly Ivar had never before articulated the way he felt and Ubbe knew that he only did so now because they were all alone and no one could hear them. He felt like a fist was closing around his heart at Ivar’s words. It was unimaginable to him what it must be like to grow up feeling like this. He had never questioned the love others held for him - especially not his family's love. 

“I love you,” Ubbe then said before he leaned down and pressed their foreheads together. “I do. And that is not an expression of duty because you are my little brother. The first time Mother put you in my arms, I loved you. I loved you even before you were born. We might not always agree but my love for you is unconditional.”

“And yet you are not considering my ideas and keep me from leading the way father wanted me to.”

“I never said that I was not considering your ideas,” Ubbe huffed and ruffled Ivar’s hair just because he knew that his little brother hated it when someone messed his hair up. “Actually, I came to a decision.”

“Oh? So _you_ decide now?”

“Shut up,” Ubbe laughed. “And allow me to speak, you donkey. I realized that you are right. We can not start building a new community on this land without building up a safety net first. As long as Aethelwulf is out there, he will not simply leave the land we claim to us. We need, as you said, a stronghold from where we can operate more safely. So yes, we should go north to York.”

Ivar was speechless for a second. “What took you so long to come to this conclusion?”

Again, Ubbe barked out a laugh and gently smacked his brother’s face. “Shush. Go to bed. We are leaving as soon as possible.”

**-End of Chapter 2-**


	3. The Sheep and the Archer

A scream ripped through the dense Northumbrian forest. A scream that drove through Hvitserk like a bolt of lightning and hit him to the core. It was a sound that he knew better than anything else. It was a sound that had haunted his entire childhood, his entire _life_. 

_Your eyes are blue, Ivar. Not today. Stay in bed._ That was what they, Ubbe, Sigurd, and Hvitserk used to tell their little brother when the whites in his eyes had turned blue again overnight - after their drunkard mother had given this responsibility of checking on Ivar every morning during their childhood to them. They had been children themselves and yet their mother had trusted them to make the call to decide whether or not their brother would be able to leave his bed and follow them around like a little duckling. Ivar had hated them for it whenever they had told him ‘not today’. Often he had left his bed regardless to follow them only to be punished for his disobedience with yet another broken bone.

“Ivar!” He called out and followed the sound of his brother’s screams through the underbrush as thorns were cutting into his cheeks while he hastily tried to find the injured man. They had separated only for a couple of minutes as they were hunting in the forests surrounding their new territory of York. Ubbe had said that it was not a good idea to take Ivar with him. His eyes had been vibrant blue again this morning and yet Hvitserk had known from the start that his brother would not take no for an answer. He had promised Ubbe that he would keep a close eye on Ivar and that they would rest often throughout their hike through the woods. 

As Hvitserk now found Ivar, he was lying on the ground in agony. It took Hvitserk only one glance to see the bone sticking out of Ivar’s right shin. Fuck. Not again. Ivar’s right leg was already a minefield of bumps and scars. His bones broke in half like twigs. This time, however, it had not been simply by fault of his brittle bones. There was a root of a tree sticking out of the ground treacherously. Ivar had probably not seen it and fell over it. He should have been there to catch him. Ubbe would rip his head off. Sigurd would rip his arm off and beat him with it for being so reckless. 

He was at his baby brother’s side and on the ground in a heartbeat, his hands hovering over his injured leg before he could process what it was he had to do next. He had been here before but out of all of them, Hvitserk had never been particularly good at taking care of his brother’s injuries. Sigurd, in spite of the animosities between him and Ivar, had always been better at taking care of his injuries. Sigurd’s hands were firm whenever he needed to fix a broken bone or patch up another cut. Ubbe too was good at that. None of them were here though. Hvitserk had to do this himself - and he found himself panicking at the thought.

“Okay…” He muttered to himself. “Okay … We can do this. We need to get your braces off first,” He then concluded but as he started to unbuckle the brace on Ivar’s right leg, his brother started lashing out at him, the noise of a frightened animal leaving his lips without his consent. “Ivar, we need to take your brace off! I can’t fix your leg otherwise. Come on, help me.”

“No!” Ivar breathed out through gritted teeth. “No! You’re making it worse!”

“I’m not!” Hvitserk replied immediately, agitated by his little brother’s pain and evident fear.

“You know nothing about fixing a broken bone!” Ivar threw back. “I would have more luck with a squirrel trying to fix my leg!”

“Oh, come on!” Hvitserk groaned. “I know _exactly_ what I’m doing!”

“No, you don't!”

“Yes, I do! I’ve seen it a million times how it’s done!”

“How are you going to do it then?”

“I will take your brace off, I will fix the bone and then I will get sticks so straighten your leg and stabilize it!”

“That is not very specific!”

“Oh, you are just a big baby, Ivar!” Hvitserk groaned and before his little brother could try to stop him, he quickly moved on top of him, straddling Ivar’s hips with his back turned towards the younger son of Ragnar. This way Ivar would not be able to do anything about him fixing his leg as he was positively pinned to the ground by Hvitserk’s weight. 

Ivar swatted at his back relentlessly like he was nothing but an annoying fly, but Hvitserk continued to unbuckle the brace on his leg and threw it to the side. Then he pulled his hunting knife from his belt to cut open Ivar’s pants from the ankle up to the knee. He felt a little nauseous looking at the bone sticking out of his lower leg but right now was certainly not the time to be squeamish or vomit all over his brother. He knew that he needed to act quickly so that the wound would not get infected until they would be able to reach York again. 

They had spent the entire day coming up here and they had planned to return by the end of the next day. No matter what they would do, they would be out in the wild at least until sunrise, and that only if Hvitserk would be able to carry Ivar all the way back throughout the night. He himself was exhausted already. They would have to rest for a few hours before they could start going back. Quickly, he grabbed his waterskin and poured a little of the water inside over the wound. Ivar let out another painful cry at this as he was tossing beneath his brother on the ground like a mad beast. 

“Take a deep breath, okay? I’m going to set the bone now.”

“No! Hvitserk! Stop it, I’m fine!” He didn't wait for his brother to relax as he firmly grabbed his leg and then, with one quick push, brought the bone back into place just like Sigurd had done last time that happened. Ivar’s scream ripped through the woods but then it was blissfully quiet and it took Hvitserk a moment to realize that he had passed out. Well, that certainly made things a little easier.

After Ivar had passed out he washed his wound once more before he ripped the destroyed pant leg off and cut it into strips. The fabric was not clean but it was cleaner than the other side thanks to the brace protecting it. It had to suffice. So, Hvitserk made quick work in bandaging the wound before he went to find a few sticks, breaking them in halves and then tying them around Ivar’s shin to keep the leg straight and the broken bone supported. Of course, he thought about putting the brace back on but he was afraid of his leg swelling and the blood circulation being cut off without Hvitserk noticing. They could put it back on later when they knew what they were dealing with in terms of swelling. With a sigh, he propped his brother up against a tree. Only then did he start to set up camp right where they were. 

By the time he was finished setting up the campfire, Ivar was returning to the land of the living and night had already fallen. Autumn had conquered England a couple of weeks ago and by now the forests of Northumbria were dressed in warm oranges and yellows, reminding him just enough of the forests of Norway to make him feel safe and at home. Ivar woke up with a groan and Hvitserk quickly returned to his side at that truly miserable sound his baby brother was making. 

“Hey,” He drew Ivar’s attention before pressing the mouth of his waterskin to Ivar’s lips. “Here, drink, you need it.”

Ivar drank greedily and almost choked on it a couple of times before Hvitserk withdrew the skin. As Ivar’s eyes slowly fluttered open, the whites in his eyes were a vibrant blue. Crap. Carefully as to not startle him, Hvitserk put his hand against Ivar’s forehead. He was a little warm despite the cold winds ripping through the trees. He could not risk his brother getting a fever out here but he knew also that there was little he could do about it.

“Are you hungry?” Hvitserk asked quietly but Ivar shook his head. That too was not a good sign. “You need to eat, though,” He pressed on. Already he had set up one of the rabbits that they managed to hunt down over the fire. “Come on, we’ll share and then you’ll sleep a little more, okay?”

“We need to go back…”

“I know, I know … but not right now. I am exhausted. Let me rest a few hours and then we’ll start the trek back. We could make it until sunrise.” 

Ivar nodded at last. It was clear that Ivar was in pain but there was little he could do for him now. He nudged his head against that of his little brother at that, thankful that Ivar was not making a fuss for now, even though he knew that it was only because the guy was too exhausted and groggy to really do anything. Ivar remained uncharacteristically quiet as he sat there while Hvitserk took care of their food and when they finally got to eat the rabbit, his brother ate like a bird. At least he was eating. In the end, he didn't manage to get more than a leg down and Hvitserk ate the rest of it.

They settled close to the fire, leaning against a tree and for once Ivar did not even groan about it as Hvitserk pulled him into his side and wrapped a fur around him. It was comfortably warm the way they sat together like this in the light of the fire even despite the danger lurking around them in the shadows. A wolf howled in the distance.

“We should have listened to Ubbe…” Ivar finally confessed his thoughts even though his words sounded slurred. He was burning up already as Hvitserk leaned his head against Ivar’s. Two hours. He would sleep no more than two hours to regain some strength. Then he would carry his brother back to York no matter the cost.

“I agree,” Hvitserk sighed with a little chuckle. “We should have listened to Ubbe.”

“Why did you even take me with you?” Ivar then asked and took him by surprise with this question.

“Why would I not?” Hvitserk replied. “We always went hunting together.”

“Sure but … it's not like I am that much help out here. Perhaps you should have taken Sigurd instead.”

“But I wanted to take you,” he said with a small shrug. “I always enjoyed going hunting with you. You make it more challenging to me.”

“Challenging?”

“Yes,” he laughed. “You always make everything into a competition and I enjoy that. You bring out the best in me when we are hunting together and we always bring home far more food than the others this way.”

“Not this time, though.”

“There’s always a first time for everything,” Hvitserk sighed. “Next time that we will go out hunting, we will surprise everyone again.”

“Do you really think there will be a next time, though?”

“What? Of course. You are not planning on dying on me out here, right? I would have to throw you to the wolves and then Ubbe would rip me to shreds. He always hates it when we go off by ourselves.”

“He thinks he needs to supervise me all the time.”

“He always felt responsible for you. I mean … he _was_ responsible for you. Mother was too busy … well, drinking, half the time.”

“She was not a drunk!”

“Of course she was,” Hvitserk sighed. “She was devastated after father abandoned us. I mean she still took some care of you and herself but for the most time, it was like she too had abandoned us. At least Ubbe felt that way. It often seemed like he had to take care of everything and grow up too quickly - at least whenever Bjorn was not around. You were too young to realize it, though, and Ubbe didn't want you to realize how much he actually did.”

“Regardless … Mother was not a drunk. She loved us and she cared about us.”

“She did,” Hvitserk sighed. “In her own way. But she did not care _for_ us. There is a difference there, little brother. At least when it came to us … she did not really care. She always treated you differently than she treated us, though. For the longest time I was angry at her but then I realized that I never really needed her as much as you needed her.”

“I didn't need _her_ ,” Ivar then quietly muttered and before Hvitserk could disagree, his brother looked up at him. “I needed _you_. I needed my brothers and to be treated like an equal. Mother never understood that. She always treated me like a sick child and it felt nice that none of you did the same. It felt good to be treated like a normal kid and it made me want to prove myself to you too. It challenged me. It would have been easier to play the sick child and let mother coddle me but when I was with you I couldn't do that. I would have drowned without my brothers.”

He didn't quite know what to say to this so he opted to be silent. He pulled Ivar a little closer, leaning his head against his brother’s. There was no need for more words to be exchanged between them. At some point, Ivar fell asleep against him again and Hvitserk followed him quickly. He woke up when the fire went out and stared for a few moments into the dying embers. The cold was settling into his bones now thoroughly and Ivar was still asleep against him. For a moment, he wanted to go back to sleep but as he felt Ivar’s forehead his brother was burning and he knew that he had to start moving. Carefully, he nudged Ivar awake and a few moments later, they were moving through the darkness of the unfamiliar woods. Ivar was nodding off against him again and again but holding onto the leather strap that Hvitserk was holding in front of his stomach regardless. They had been here many a time before, after all. Hvitserk knew how to carry his brother on his back and Ivar knew how to not slip off even if he would fall asleep. It was definitely challenging to make their way through the pitch-black woods of Northumbria like this and there were a couple of times when Hvitserk nearly stumbled and fell but in the end, he always somehow managed to catch himself.

The sky started to become lighter as Ivar’s head fell against his shoulder for the millionth time, his brother’s breathing hitting the side of his neck as he soldiered on with straining legs. He needed a break soon but every time he would take a break it would only get harder to get up again and he could not risk being out here for too long with Ivar like this. So, he soldiered on, knowing that he would sleep for days when they would be back in York. Ubbe could fret over Ivar then.

As they walked and Ivar’s head was lolling uselessly against his shoulder, he could not help but chuckle to himself, thinking of all the times he had carried Ivar on his back when they were children and how he would always and without fail fall asleep on him. He never did so when anyone else was carrying him around but always on Hvitserk’s back. As a child, he had been annoyed by it as it meant carrying around dead weight and feeling like he was trying to move around a black bear but now as he finally stepped out of the wood just as the sun was grazing the horizon, he realized that Ivar didn't do it on purpose. He felt safe on Hvitserk’s back and that was a feeling no one could take from Hvitserk.

**-End of Chapter 3-**


	4. The Snake and the Archer

Sigurd had known that it was a mistake to follow his brother’s lead into the mountains at this time of the year. Norway was often wracked with snowstorms in the middle of winter and even though it had not looked like there was another one heading their way, Ivar had still been advised to be cautious. With both Hvitserk and Ubbe gone on a raid and Bjorn busy with helping the queen govern Kattegat, only Sigurd had been left behind to accompany his little brother into the mountains for some hunting. Of course, Ivar had little means of transportation up the mountains if Sigurd would not have given in, at last, but knowing his brother, he was stubborn enough to risk anything just to do what he wanted. 

Someone had to make sure he wouldn't die out there in the mountains and woods. Even though his brothers would be surprised to hear that Sigurd Snake in the Eye worried about his little brother’s safety. 

“I told you that it was a stupid idea,” Sigurd groaned as he carried his brother up the steep incline, his feet sinking into the knee-high snow with each step. 

“And yet you are here with me,” Ivar scoffed. “What does that make you, dear Sigurd?”

“An Idiot, apparently.”

It was snowing heavily as they tried making their way back up to the hut. The warm summer days that the four of them had spent together hunting at the hut seemed a long time gone now as they marched through the desolate winter landscape. Well, _Sigurd_ marched. Ivar just clung to his big brother and breathed in his neck to be the most obnoxious he could be. At least it seemed that way even though a part of his brain reminded him of the fact that Ivar was not doing it on purpose but he had little choice as to where his hot breath would hit Sigurd. He could feel Ivar trembling against him. Sure, he was freezing cold as well but at least _he_ was moving.

They had been hunting when they had gotten surprised by the storm. they had not even caught anything more than a couple of rabbits and now his entire focus lay only on making it back to the hut quickly. He couldn't risk frostbite - and neither could Ivar. 

“We won’t make it,” Ivar muttered. To his surprise, he realized that Ivar sounded utterly exhausted - even more so than Sigurd felt. “Let me down, Sigurd, I can crawl just fine. You would be quicker.”

That gave him pause but Sigurd didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He had to continue up his trek and not waste his time thinking. “Stop being a dumbass,” Sigurd groaned. “We are almost there, you big fucking baby.” Ivar, however, was still adamant to make himself a nuisance as he started struggling against him. “Stop it already! Ivar! Stop it or I’m going to fucking drop you!”

“I’m _asking_ you to drop me!”

He shouldn’t. He knew he should not give in to his goading. He was the older one of them even if only by a year. He was responsible for Ivar. He had seen sixteen winters and next summer he would follow Bjorn on a raid. He, as the big brother, as the more grown-up brother, should know better and _be_ better. Instead, he pushed Ivar off his back and sent him tumbling into the snow where his brother sunk in almost completely.

He would have laughed if the situation would not be so dire. Now, however, his brother only left a hole in the snow. Soon a cough came out of the same hole and his brother started moving, crawling beside him even as the snow swallowed him almost completely. He couldn't lie and pretend as if he was not relieved - at least a little. Already Sigurd felt much lighter as he walked up the steep incline. It would be easy for him to make his way to the hut even as he was barely able to see the hut against the snow that was whirling around him wildly, hitting him in the face. 

For a second, he was tempted to just abandon Ivar out here. Why wouldn't he? He would return from this trip weathered with experience and full of grief because he had lost his little brother in the mountains and that would be it. Ivar was the bane of his existence and he would finally be rid of him. 

And yet, Sigurd did not start running. He kept the same pace so that Ivar could keep up with him. His fingers, as they kept sinking into the snow, had to be freezing cold. It seemed a miracle when they finally made it to the hut. Getting in through the door, however, proved more difficult as they reached the hut. Snow had been piling up in front of the door while they had been out and now it took both of them to open it. He let Ivar crawl inside first before he quickly rushed in as well, closing the door against the storm and the snow and barricading it from the inside so that the door would not get pushed open by the winds. Inside it was still deathly cold. 

“We need to make a fire,” Ivar said as his teeth were chattering and his lips trembling. Of course, getting a fire started was more important than anything else right now and yet it seemed they had little to kindle any potential fire with. Even if they would succeed, they wouldn't be able to keep it running until this storm would subside. They had not planned on staying for longer than a few hours, a day at the most. They had nothing to eat except for the two rabbits that they had caught and they were probably already frozen solid or would be by tomorrow. 

“Yeah,” Sigurd murmured. “Get on with it, I’m going to gather all the blankets and furs we have here.” While he clamored to find every fur and every blanket they had stored inside the hut over the years, Ivar made quick work in lighting a fire in the hearth. The heat from the fire was not nearly enough to warm them or the hut but it was enough to cook their rabbits so that they would at least get something to eat for the time being.

“Why did you want to go hunting so badly?” Sigurd groaned as they later sat near the hearth and nibbling away at their rabbits. He knew that the fire would soon die and they had nothing left to throw into the flames to keep it going. “I mean we have plenty of food at home.”

“So?” Ivar asked. “No one knows how long this snowstorm will last and when our hunters can go back into the woods again. We might not be able to get over the winter with the supplies we have.”

“Are you trying to say that you did it for the greater good?”

“Would that be that much of a surprise?” Ivar’s gaze was as challenging as always. He knew that it was a trap and yet, as always, Sigurd jumped headfirst into it. He was not Ubbe, after all, who was always trying to avoid getting into arguments with their baby brother. Nor was he Hvitserk, who always tried to humor Ivar and make him laugh so that his wrath might not be directed at him. Sometimes Sigurd thought that he was the only person who was not afraid of Ivar.

“Yes,” Sigurd scoffed. “Yes, it would because the Ivar I know thinks of himself first.”

“Do you really think so little of me, brother?” If he wouldn't know any better he would say that Ivar sounded hurt as he threw the last bone of his meal into the flames.

“I try to think as little of you as possible, Ivar,” Sigurd then countered. “But yes, I think you are selfish and self-absorbed and that you have little regard for other people. It's always _you_ first. It has always been like that!”

“That is just the jealousy talking!”

“Why would I be jealous?” Sigurd scoffed. “What is there to be jealous of, Ivar? You are a pathetic little man, a cripple!”

“You are jealous because mother never loved you!”

“You know, maybe mother is the only person in the whole world who actually cares about you, Ivar, but mother doesn't love you either! We all wished she would have left you to the wolves! Even father left because of you!”

Maybe that had been one step too far. Before he knew it, Ivar had pulled his throwing ax and hurled it at him. Sigurd barely managed to dodge the almost certainly deathly blow but a second later he was on the ground and Ivar’s fist slammed down onto his nose. His head exploded in pain but his reaction was quick regardless as instinct was kicking in. Ivar was fast and he had strong arms but Sigurd was still older and a more experienced fighter. Their fight was short, brutal, and dirty and in the end, Sigurd only managed to win because he somehow wrangled Ivar onto his front and pulled his left arm behind his back.

“Get off me!” Ivar grunted but Sigurd only pulled harder at his arm. “Sigurd!” If he would pull even harder he would dislocate Ivar’s shoulder - and then his brother would not be able to slither around on the ground like a snake anymore. The thought was tempting. He could do it, leave the hut and abandon him up here. “Sigurd, please!”

He stopped right as the word left his brother’s mouth. Not because he said please but more because of the fear lacing Ivar’s voice. He had never heard him sound any degree of afraid and yet here they were. Ivar was afraid of him - Afraid of what Sigurd might do to him now that they were alone up here in the mountains and no one was there to protect him from his own brother. No Ubbe, no Bjorn, no Hvitserk. 

He stood up as quickly as he could before he grabbed two of the blankets and went over into a corner close by the hearth but far away from the bed. He didn't say anything as he sat down and wrapped himself in the blankets. They did little to stave off the cold, of course. Quickly, Sigurd directed his gaze at the flames so that he would not need to watch how Ivar slowly made his way to the bed and so that he could pretend like he would not see the tears on his little brother’s face. In a way, he was shocked by his own ruthlessness against his own flesh and blood. Shocked by his own thoughts.

It was moments like this when he felt shame for the way he would react to his brother and how he would treat him. It was easy to be blinded by anger when he was dealing with Ivar because, in the end, his brother was right. He was jealous. He had been jealous. His mother had cast him to the wayside after Ivar was born and all her love and affection had gone into him while Sigurd had been left to fend for himself in Ubbe’s care. It had taken Siggy’s death for little seven-year-old Sigurd to realize that his mother did not care about him or anyone else but Ivar. He remembered her barely looking at him as he had told her about how he had found Siggy’s dead body because his mother had not watched her as she should have. 

At that moment, Sigurd had realized that it might as well have been him and Aslaug would not have batted a lash. His whole outlook on life and his mother had changed after that and he had clung to Ubbe and Hvitserk more than ever before at their return from France. Yet, it had been hard for him to keep up with those two who shared so much together. More often than not he had found himself alone and regretful over the fact that he and Ivar seemed to be separated by an ocean. By all means, they should have been as close as Ubbe and Hvitserk always were but anger and resentment separated them. 

Deep down he knew, of course, that it was not Ivar’s fault that their mother acted the way she did. It had not been his choice to be born a cripple or for his mother to dig her claws into him and not let him do anything alone or with his brothers. He remembered how he had often pitied Ivar for not being allowed or able to play with the other children. It must have been lonely - especially after their mother had started drinking and barely ever stopped. In questions of the heart, however, logic was a thing that was only rarely deployed and Ivar had always been a far more easy target for his hate and anger.

Ivar remained silent as they sat at opposite sides of the hut, curled up in what little blankets and warmth that they had. Sigurd knew that it was not enough and that neither one of them could possibly fall asleep. They needed to stay awake but exhaustion made it almost impossible. They would freeze up here and they both knew it and yet they remained sitting in silence, their eyelids drooping and every second becoming slower and longer. It took all Sigurd’s willpower to keep his eyes open. 

At one point the fire went out and they were left in darkness, the only sound the howling of the storm outside as their breath was fogging in front of their faces. 

“Are you awake?” He was surprised as, after an eternity, Ivar’s voice sounded from the other side of the room. It sounded strained and tired and he could tell that his little brother was close to drifting off to sleep. 

“Yes…” He rasped even as it took him much more effort than he wanted to admit. “Stay awake.”

“Mhm…”

“Ivar”

“Hm?”

“Stay awake.”

“Mhm…”

He had spent his entire life at his baby brother’s side. They had been sharing a bed for most of their lives. Sigurd knew exactly what Ivar sounded like when he was about to fall asleep. 

“Ivar,” He said again but his brother produced only a small, barely audible groan. Mobilizing his remaining energy, Sigurd grabbed his blankets tighter only to untangle his limbs and slowly crawl across the ground on all fours. He did have no strength left to push himself to his feet. 

He reached Ivar and the bed within seconds even though it felt like a lifetime. Ivar’s breathing was already strained but deep as he reached him. Wasting no further thought about it, he laid down beside Ivar and pulled him close to his own chest, so that his brother’s face was against his front. Ivar produced another little groan, acknowledging Sigurd’s presence as he put the remaining two blankets on top of both of them. They had little chance to survive this night but if they would die, at least they would not die alone in separate corners of the hut just out of spite and anger.

“I’m sorry for hitting you…” Ivar said quietly against his chest, his voice heavy with fatigue as if it was a chore to get any word out. “Your face is all you’ve got…”

Sigurd couldn't help but breathe out a chuckle at that but he pulled Ivar closer against himself, tangling his legs with those of his brother just to get closer and warmer. If they would see another day, Sigurd promised himself, that he would work harder to understand his brother. The fighting came naturally to them both but Sigurd knew that underneath their anger and frustrations with one another was love. And, if they would play their cards right, they might just save what little of a relationship they had so that it might not end in bloodshed between them one day.

**-End of Chapter 4-**


	5. The Archer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Extra Chapter!

The mistake, like it was so often the case with mistakes, had been stupid. A moment of inattention that nearly cost him his life right then and there. In fact, as Ivar the Boneless sank into the dirt of the battlefield that had become of the streets of York, it seemed like one of those Christian miracles that the attack had not been instantly lethal. 

The streets of York had become flooded with mud and blood as the heavy rainstorm prevailed, drumming down on his face as he sank against the ground, ragged breaths tearing from his throat. The sword was still sticking out of him and he didn't dare to pull it out or even move an inch. He knew enough about wounds like these to realize that he might just bleed out in a matter of seconds if he would pull the sword out. That was the mistake so many men and women always seemed to make while on the battlefield. As long as the sword was lodged in his chest, right underneath his ribcage, just inches away from his lungs, the blood would remain inside his body and he might just survive. His father and his brother Bjorn had survived much more crucial injuries in the past because they had been smart about it. He needed to be smart about it. 

And yet around him, the fighting continued and the world exploded in chaos as a storm was raging mercilessly through York.

He didn't know where his brothers were. He had been forced to leave the safety of the roman walls as arrows had rained down on him. Instead, he had entered the fray on his crutches. The last time he had seen Hvitserk, he had gone against someone from the king’s guard. He didn't know where the others were, though. They were lost in a maelstrom of bodies all fighting to the death. He was alone as he lay in the middle of the street, the sky stretching out above him in a dull grey, raindrops slamming down onto his face and washing away the grime and the blood. 

Was that how he would be found by his brothers? Alone amongst the corpses of other Vikings and Christians? The thought terrified him.

He had never been afraid of death. Death, in fact, was like an old friend to him - always lingering in his periphery, always there reminding him of his own mortality and the frailness of his crippled body. He had won many times against it but it seemed now that this time death would win this battle. His body was heavy, his legs unwilling to cooperate, his arms utterly useless and his head filled with fear. He could see death again. It came in the form of Odin to him. He saw him standing only a few feet away, wrapped in his dark cowl, his two ravens on his shoulders, as he stared at him out of his empty eye socket. Valhalla. He would see his father again soon. He had proven himself worthy. It was a relief knowing that. No fear had ever been greater than to die of an illness, defeated by his crippled body at last. It was better to die young and with a sword in his hand than die as an old man in a bed, sick and helpless, with his body and his illness triumphing over him.

For the first time in his life, he was willing to give in, to accept his defeat. This was a good death. He had killed the man wielding the sword with his dagger. He was lying only a few feet away, face down in the mud, his throat slit from ear to ear. And yet, even though he knew that it was a good death, even though he was willing to embrace it, a sob got stuck in his throat and his eyes roamed across the field of bodies surrounding him, pleading with the world around him to send him one of his brothers. 

He was afraid. A great man could admit his fears without shame. And right now he was full of fear. He didn't want to die alone. He was afraid of dying alone. He was afraid that his brothers wouldn't know how he died or why. He was afraid of being forgotten. He was afraid of dying too soon. He could have done so much more with his life. He had wanted to do so much more with his life.

Alas, darkness was creeping up on him and Odin was closer now. He could feel the life draining from him as a gush of blood shot out of his mouth in a cough. His eyes were slipping close. Oh, how he wished he could have talked to his brothers one last time to tell them of his plans so that they might fulfill them for him. He wanted to warn them of all the possible horrors to come and advise them of the best cause of action.

The world around him was reduced to muffled sounds and a vague feeling of water on his skin. No pain, no cold, just peacefulness settling over him. Then, suddenly, someone was touching his face, shaking his shoulders, pulling him away from the ground. As he blinked, he saw a mess of tangled blond curls and wild blue eyes. A snake mocked him as it always had throughout his life. 

“Stay awake!” His brother screamed. His voice always had this weird twang to it when he got agitated. It had always annoyed him in the past. “Stay awake, you hear me?”

“Sigurd,” he whispered. He wasn't alone. The Gods had sent him his brother. He could see that his lips were moving but he couldn't hear his words and then, darkness claimed him and he was drowning.

※※※※※※※

The next time he opened his eyes, he was in pain. Mind-numbing, gut-wrenching, all-consuming pain. Someone was holding him down. He could feel strong hands press against the flesh of his shoulders. They were cold against his burning skin. Desperately he tried to make sense of the colors around him but they blent together into uncaring, faceless blobs. He tried to get away. Something wasn’t right. were those the hands of the damned in Hel pulling him under with them? He felt like he was being swallowed whole by the ground.

“Relax!” A voice called out to him. Another blob appeared right above him, blonde hair, blue eyes - that was the first thing that he recognized. He breathed through the pain as he had done all his life. If he was in pain he had to be alive. This was not Hel. Odin had not taken him yet.

“Sigurd,” He rasped as he recognized his brother's face. It was Sigurd’s hands holding him down. A sword. He remembered a sword sticking out of him. 

Ivar tore his eyes away from those of his brother, scanning down his naked torso only to find the sword still stuck inside of his body. His breathing hitched at the sight and a wave of panic flooded through him. The logical part of his mind told him that his brothers had cut his armor and his shirt beneath off so as to not disturb the wound and he knew what that meant. He had seen it before. Someone was kneeling beside a fire. He recognized the back of Hvitserk’s head easily. His braids were all tangled up and messy, a few had come undone in the fray of battle. Ivar would need to redo them for him again. Hvitserk was useless when it came to braiding his own hair. He would run around like an unkempt dog until one of them took mercy on him and he would always whine like a little baby when they would need to brush his mane and untangle the knots. He remembered once during their childhood how Ubbe had threatened Hvitserk to shave it all off for him.

A groan - or was it a sob? - slipped from his lips. He wasn’t afraid of the pain that was to come. He had dealt with pain all his life. He was afraid that Odin would never take him now if he would die on this table. He should have died out there in the streets of York. He didn't even know if they had won. 

“Shh…” Sigurd whispered and his hands became softer against Ivar’s shoulders. He realized, probably, that he didn't need to hold him down. He wouldn't be able to move anyway. Not with a sword sticking out of him. “Shh … everything is going to be fine.”

Then there was Ubbe. He had not seen him before but now he was right beside the table that Ivar was lying on. He only knew that it must be a table because his fingers were holding onto the edges to his sides without his consent. Ubbe wore a worried expression on his face but that seemed so normal that sometimes Ivar forgot that Ubbe could actually smile. Ever since they came to England he seemed worried all the time. Worried about food shortages, worried about a sickness raging in the town, worried about the upcoming battles, worried about the farmlands that they had established, worried about his brothers, worried about Ivar. He looked older now than he had when they first traveled to England together. 

He remembered coming home to Kattegat, and the relief he had felt as he had seen Ubbe and Sigurd waiting for him at the dock. It had been like the sun peeking through dark clouds. His lips were trembling now. He could feel it. Once more, just like on that day he had returned from England, he felt like a child.

“Hvitserk?” Ubbe called out and his brother Hvitserk grunted a response that Ivar couldn't quite understand. Then Ubbe placed one hand gently on his stomach, close to the sword as his other hand grabbed the hilt.

“No!” Ivar breathed. “No, no, no!”

“Shh,” Sigurd made again, this time putting force into his hands once more - afraid Ivar would buck and make everything worse for himself.

“It's over in a second,” Ubbe promised. “Don't be afraid. It's going to be quick and then you’ll be fine again and cause some more havoc.”

He nodded even though he didn't want to. He was a son of Ragnar Lothbrok. He was a warrior. He was a prince. And, one day, he would be a king. He knew all this. It was what his mind desperately clung to. He needed to show strength now. 

Ivar took a deep breath and so did Ubbe before, with one swift move, he pulled the sword out of him. Ivar stared in horror at the bloodied blade, realizing only then how deep it had gone through him. It looked like it had almost pierced all the way through him. He had no time to really think about any of that, however, as blood started to well out of his wound immediately. Hvitserk was at their side momentarily, a burning hot poker in his hands. 

Again, he wanted to buck and escape but now Ubbe was holding down his hips and he was rendered immobile. He almost didn't feel the pain as Hvitserk pressed the iron down on his wound but the scream that tore from his throat told a much different story. The smell of burning flesh and blood filled his nostrils and made him want to throw up but he resisted. When it was over, he felt like he was about to pass out. Black dots were dancing at the field of his vision and his brothers’ hands were gone. He wished they weren’t.

He blinked slowly as he lay there and with every blink hours seemed to have gone by. The next time he felt like he was seeing the world clearly again, Hvitserk was at his side but there was no sign of Ubbe or Sigurd anywhere. Something wet was dragged across his stomach and it took him a moment to realize that Hvitserk was cleaning his skin with a wet cloth. He would feel embarrassed about it if the situation wouldn't be so familiar. How many times had he been too sick to take care of himself for one of his brothers to help him wash? But all that seemed a lifetime ago and that it now happened again was driving him mad.

“You are awake,” Hvitserk suddenly muttered and looked at him. “I wasn’t sure.”

“I can wash myself…” He replied and his throat felt like he had swallowed sand. As an answer to his words, however, he was rewarded with the wet cloth smacking into his face and staying there. It was an almost comfortable feeling - the cool against his skin.

“Mhm … I can see that,” Hvitserk hummed before he took the cloth away and wiped down his cheeks. “We should have stayed at the house of King Ecbert. He had this ancient roman bath. That would be perfect for you right now.”

“I’m not a child, Hvitserk,” Ivar groaned as his brother continued to clean his face and even rubbed the blood and dirt from the shells of his ears.

“Clearly,” his brother cackled and all Ivar wanted to do was punch him. Of course, his body remained his most foul fiend and it refused to work in accordance with his wishes.

“What happened?” He asked then as he allowed Hvitserk to continue his work.

“We won,” Hvitserk replied dutifully. “Thanks to this outrageous plan of yours. The Saxons were easy prey as they came into town thinking we were gone. We even captured one of them as a prisoner.”

“You did?”

“Yes, that warrior priest. Remember him? Ubbe and Sigurd are with him right now but he is one stubborn bastard.” As Hvitserk was done with his work, his brother sat down heavily on a chair close to the table he was still lying on. “Don't worry about any of that though. We have won, only that matters now. The Saxons have been defeated and in due time, we will negotiate a treaty with them.”

“I want-”

“Yes, you want to be there, I know. That is why we will wait. All you need to do now is recover. The Saxons themselves have suffered great losses and injuries. They too will need time to recover. Their king and one of the princes got injured as well. We should have a few weeks of rest and peace until we can expect to hear anything from them. Sleep now. You deserve it. You gave us another victory, little brother. Our father watches from Valhalla with pride.”

“Are you staying?”

“Of course, I’ll stay.”

※※※※※※※

He was running a fever. He knew that it was bad as he woke up in his bed in the middle of the night. His logical mind was in alarm, telling him to get out of bed and find help. Getting his body to cooperate, however, was a whole different story. It took him three trials to actually manage to get his body over the edge even though it meant that he slammed into the ground hard. He remained laying on the floor for a good couple of minutes, just breathing and trying to regain his senses. His ears were ringing, his body caught in a riptide of pain. For a moment he was even confused why he was on the ground in the first place before he remembered and started moving again. 

Slowly, he dragged himself across the floor. He didn't have enough strength left to lift his upper body off the floor so he had no other choice but to crawl across the ground like a worm or a baby. Ubbe’s room was the closest to his own. Now, he could only hope to find his brother in bed.

It took him an eternity to even reach the door and thankfully found it ajar. He remembered Sigurd bringing him food and then leaving the door like this so that they would hear him if he would yell. He should have just yelled. Now, however, he had already made it halfway and he was not about to turn back. 

Inside the hallway it was cold. The building was drafty with all those windows everywhere. He shivered as he made his way down the corridor to Ubbe’s door. His brother’s door was wide open and almost he was afraid that it might mean that Ubbe was not in his room - before he heard him mumble in his sleep. Ubbe always talked in his sleep. It was a source of comfort for Ivar to hear that sound now even as it had served as a source for annoyance during his childhood as he and his brothers had all slept in the same room. Now, whenever he needed to sleep in the same room as his brothers, it brought him great comfort to hear Ubbe talk in his sleep, to hear Hvitserk snoring, or to hear the rustling of the blankets and creaking of the bed whenever Sigurd would toss and turn all throughout the night. None of his brothers were quiet sleepers - and he himself wasn’t either.

He made his way into Ubbe’s room even as his arms were straining and threatening to give in completely. He managed to get beside his brother’s bed before he could not move any further. One of his brother’s arms hung off the bed and even as it took all his remaining energy, he reached up with one arm and started tugging as best as he could at Ubbe’s hand. Ubbe started swatting at him in response but Ivar continued to tug at his hand, trying to get his attention.

“Ubbe!” He called out with a raspy voice. He felt dizzy from the strain he had put onto his ailing body with this stunt. “Ubbe, wake up!”

Finally, his brother reacted with a grunt to his presence, then a groan, and finally: “Ivar? What’s wrong?” Even as he was still groggy with sleep, Ubbe was at his side in a heartbeat, squatting on the ground to check him over. His hand was on his forehead before Ivar even knew what was going on. “By Odin,” Ubbe gasped. “You are burning up, Ivar! Why didn't you say anything?”

He wanted to snap at him but his mouth just wouldn't cooperate. Suddenly, Ubbe was grabbing him under his arms and lifted him up onto his bed as if he weighed nothing. Thankful to no longer be on the ground, Ivar sank into the warmth of Ubbe’s bed and his brother did not hesitate to pull his blankets and furs over Ivar’s shivering body. 

“Just wait here, okay? I go fetch Helga, she will know what to do.” 

Helga always knew what to do. So often in his childhood, Helga had taken care of his ailments with her teas and herbs. She would be able to help him now too. As he lay in Ubbe’s bed, he started dozing off again and as he dozed off, Ivar didn't know yet that it would be a long time until he would wake up again.

He could feel something wet press against his lips and a few drops of cold water running into his mouth and down his throat. His instincts said to suck on whatever it was that was being pushed against his mouth as if he was still a newborn. Instead, he opened his eyes even as the task seemed monumental. Immediately, he was confronted with the tired-looking face of his big brother leaning over him.

“You need to drink, Ivar…” Ubbe’s voice sounded hoarse as if he himself needed to drink something. His hands had a life of their own as they tried to push Ubbe away and a low whine escaped his throat. His own body did not follow his command anymore. “Ivar! Stop it! You need to drink, come on.”

He could hear another voice but he couldn't understand what it was saying. Everything was a blur and then the world vanished into darkness again. He was pulled under, tied to the mast of a ship as the waves of unconsciousness crashed above his head. As he was pulled out of the sea again, he did not know how much time had passed since the last time he had opened his eyes.

There was a warm body next to him on the bed and something heavy resting on his legs. As he glanced over he saw Hvitserk lying next to him, fast asleep on his side and, with his head cushioned on Ivar’s shins, lay Sigurd equally fast asleep. Confused, he blinked into the dim light of the room and didn't recognize it at first until he realized that he was still in Ubbe’s bed. He found Ubbe sleeping in a chair next to the bed, his chin resting on his chest. Slowly, he reached out to Ubbe to tug at his hand. He was parched, his throat burned.

Ubbe jolted awake right away even though he needed a moment to remember where he was and what was going on. As his eyes found Ivar awake, however, he watched his face break out into a soft smile. Ubbe clasped his hand right away almost as if he was afraid, Ivar would doze off again if he wouldn't. Ubbe’s hand was cold against his own flesh. He was usually the one with the cold hands. He still had a hard time focusing on anything or getting his body to behave the way he wanted it to. He could feel that the fever had him in a tight grasp and refused to let go of him.

“Hey…” Ubbe murmured softly and so quietly that only Ivar would be able to hear it as he leaned in closer. With his free hand, Ubbe brushed his fingers through his growing hair as he used to when they were little and Ivar in the thralls of the cramps he would often get while growing up. His growing pains had been nightmarish to everyone involved and often his legs had broken whenever he had gained a couple of inches. “Hey … Are you thirsty?”

He nodded sluggishly, well aware that he would not manage to speak. Ubbe quickly grabbed a waterskin that he had placed on a small table beside the bed. He put the mouth of the skin to Ivar’s lips and helped him to hold his head up a little so he could drink without choking on it.

“Slowly…” Ubbe murmured as he helped him but Ivar drank greedily regardless. His body thanked him for it but Ubbe took the skin away after a couple of gulps and brushed a few stray waterdrops away from his face.

“What happened?” He rasped and even to his own ears, his voice sounded slurred.

“You got an infection,” Ubbe replied quietly. “You have been down with fever for three weeks now…”

“Three…”

“You hallucinated a lot … so we kept you here in my room, watching over you.” Again, Ubbe’s fingers were in his hair. “You were barely awake … We were afraid you wouldn't make it…” He was still not feeling any better. Maybe he would still die in this bed. He didn't want to die in a bed. He didn't want to be taken by an illness. “Bjorn will be here soon… I sent a message before the Saxons attacked last time and asked him to come. Please … just hold on a little while longer … just until he’s here.”

 _Ah_ , the logical part of his brain chimed up, _he thinks you will die. Ubbe thinks you won’t make it._

If Ubbe didn’t think he would pull through then chances were good that he wouldn't. He was going to die in this bed. And this time Odin would not come to take him to Valhalla. He would never see his father or his brothers again. He would go to Helheim like all the other sick and crippled - as his father had always feared he would.

“I’m afraid…” He whispered with a sob and immediately Ubbe was there with him, sitting on the edge of his own bed and pressing his forehead against Ivar’s as he held him close.

※※※※※※※

He was awake when Bjorn came to see him in Ubbe’s room. It was the first time his oldest brother regarded him with honest and unbridled worry. In the past, Bjorn had just let Ubbe handle everything concerning Ivar but now he was here and openly worried for his little brother’s health. Bjorn sat down on the edge of the bed after he walked into the room and put one of his large hands on Ivar’s left cheek. 

“I’m turning my back to you for what? Three months? And you go and waste no time to get yourself stabbed and fall ill. How are you feeling today?”

“You need to do something for me.”

“Feeling better, huh?” Bjorn scoffed at Ivar’s response. “At least you sound like yourself again.”

“Listen…” Before he would doze off again, he thought. He had no time to spare. The minutes he would be able to cling to consciousness were precious to him. He couldn't waste the time he had left. The sand inside the hourglass ran down to the other side quicker each day now. He could feel it in his bones. 

“I’m listening.”

“You need to fight with me.”

“What?”

“I don't-” He needed a second to rein himself in again, suppressing the sob that threatened to spill out. “I don't want to die like this…”

“You are not going to die!”

“Please, Bjorn … I want to go to Valhalla! I can't die sick in a bed!” His lips were trembling and he saw Bjorn’s eyes soften. “Like a cripple…” He added quieter. 

His brother looked conflicted as he realized that Ivar was serious about it. He expected him to deny his wish. He expected his brother to call him insane and leave but instead, Bjorn brushed a hand through his hair and let it stay there for a moment. “I’ll help you,” he promised. “As your big brother, it is my duty to help you.”

“Thank you…” He murmured even as he felt that sleep was already threatening to take him again. His brother, however, seemed to have other plans in mind. He was thrown over a sturdy shoulder without knowing what was going on as the room started spiraling out of control.

“But before I kill you, we will try to get you back on your feet first.” 

He was too weak and confused to resist Bjorn as his brother carried him out of the room. Soon there was a cacophony of voices - it sounded like they were yelling and arguing but he could make little sense of it. At some point, cool air was hitting him square in the face and then he was being put down in a chair and wrapped in a couple of blankets and furs. It was the first time in what felt like an eternity that he was outside again.

Bjorn had carried him into the backyard of the villa his brothers and he had taken as their new base. It was silent out here but he could still hear the voices of their people and the sounds of the town living and breathing around them faintly in the distance. The trees were losing their last leaves and a cold breeze was brushing across his face. He felt a little groggy and he could hear Ubbe argue with Bjorn but he was actually glad to be out here. The fresh air felt like balsam for his aching body and his clouded mind. 

“He needs to be in bed!” He heard Ubbe growl. “Are you crazy? Do you want him to die?”

“Stop treating him like a frail child, Ubbe!” Bjorn shot back. “Let me handle it. You go and bring him something to eat.”

He wanted to defend Ubbe. His big brother who had been by his side the entire time since he had fallen ill, who had nursed him and stayed close and brought comfort to him. And yet he was happy to be out here right now, to be able to see the sky again - perhaps for the last time. He still doubted that his body would regain its strength. 

“I’m not hungry…” He murmured when Ubbe returned to them and handed a bowl of soup to Bjorn. Bjorn pulled a second chair close, drove the spoon into the soup, and held it to Ivar’s lips. His stomach was doing somersaults at the smell.

“If you won’t eat, you cannot get any better. Come on, humor me.” He knew that Bjorn would force him to eat if he would not comply so he finally opened his mouth and allowed his brother to feed him. He was too weak to do it himself. At least no one was here to see how low he had sunk and all just because he had been stabbed with a sword. Other warriors would have just walked it off but he proved again that he was nothing more than Ragnar Lothbrok’s crippled son - too weak to fend for himself.

“I shouldn't have tried fighting…” He murmured in between spoons full of soup that his brother patiently fed him. “I am not a warrior.”

“We have all been injured before, little brother,” Bjorn murmured. “And you will get back to your feet. You are too young to die. Odin does not want you yet. There are many things you need to do first.”

“I saw him,” Ivar breathed, suddenly aware that his other three brothers were gathering around them. “Odin. When I lay dying. He came to me.”

“I am sure he was there to tell you that there is still so much more work you have to do,” Ubbe replied quietly and brushed a hand through Ivar’s hair from where he stood behind Ivar’s chair. “We are not letting you go yet.”

“Even though you are annoying,” Hvitserk added with a chuckle. 

Sigurd, for his part, was uncharacteristically silent as he took a seat on a stool across from Ivar but as they shared a look, Ivar thought that he had never understood his big brother better than at that moment. Maybe, he thought as he swallowed another spoonful of soup, Bjorn was right. Maybe he would get back to his feet. His brothers were here with him, after all. Clearly, they needed him and his skill much more than he needed them. He would allow them this illusion of being needed though. Just a little while longer. Just while he recovered.

**-End of Chapter 5-**


End file.
